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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25230829">Ohana</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/StellaLuna365/pseuds/StellaLuna365'>StellaLuna365</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Criminal Minds (US TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Bombs, Explosions, Gen, Hurt Spencer Reid, Kidnapped Spencer Reid, Protective Aaron Hotchner, Protective BAU, Protective Derek Morgan, Protective Everyone, Spencer Reid Whump, Spencer Reid is Precious, Team Dynamics, Team as Family, The BAU is a Family, This Unsub is demented</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 02:48:56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>13,821</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25230829</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/StellaLuna365/pseuds/StellaLuna365</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When an Unsub picks up on the unexpected BAU family dynamics, specifically Reid’s place within them, he’s not afraid to use it to his advantage. </p><p>Reid thinks about how much he’s been granted despite his upbringing, and knows without a doubt that he’s willing to sacrifice everything to keep them safe. No matter what.</p><p>BAU is a precious family.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Emily Prentiss &amp; Spencer Reid, Jennifer "JJ" Jareau &amp; Spencer Reid, Penelope Garcia &amp; Spencer Reid, Spencer Reid &amp; Aaron Hotchner, Spencer Reid &amp; David Rossi, Spencer Reid &amp; Derek Morgan, Spencer Reid &amp; The BAU Team</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>68</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>927</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>General Manager at the Wendy’s in Fairbanks</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>
    <span>It’s okay I promise I’m not starting another ridiculously long fic with no consideration for my other in-progress works it’s just a three or four-shot I promise!!!</span>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <span>PS pretend it’s season six and JJ is there because I live for Spencer Reid’s hair in Season six.</span>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <span>Anyways. I hope you enjoy! </span>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    
  </b>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“A home isn’t always the house we live in. It’s also the people we choose to surround ourselves with…Your bubble, Mr. Baker, it’s been popped. Why would you allow it to grow around you again?” – T.J. Klune, The House in the Cerulean Sea</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>It’s never been explicitly stated, but it didn’t have to be—Reid has always been aware of his role in the BAU family.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s hard for any of them <em>not</em> to see how they fit in. Everyone quickly fell into their roles, and they supported each other in those roles to the best of their abilities. Reid has never had what one might call a traditional family, but the BAU more than makes up for it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hotch, the strict father with bottomless reservoirs of genuine concern and brief spurts of honest humor. The one that Reid <em>knows</em> he can go to with any problem, no matter the severity. His own father was less than stellar, and Gideon, despite his reasons, abandoned him just the same. Reid knows in his heart that Hotch will never do that, and it’s more comforting than he will ever be able to express.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rossi, the comical grandfather with enough love and advice to stock ten motivational speakers for life. His humorous encouragement and teasing makes Reid feel welcomed and appreciated, and his serious talks and support pop up when Reid needs them the most. Reid never really knew his grandparents, so the change is nice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Morgan, the protective older brother, perhaps his best friend, besides JJ. He and Morgan had gotten off to a somewhat rocky start—they’d been pleasant, and professional, but Morgan had been understandably dubious about a twenty-one-year old pipe cleaner joining the BAU. Over time, though, their relationship evolved from professional courtesy to nicknames and jokes, and Morgan eventually started calling him “pretty boy” and “kid” and, every once in a while, put up with his rambling statistics and uncontrollable excitement about some nerdy science-fiction fandom. Reid began to see him as the older brother he never had, and he’s eternally grateful for Morgan’s strength and kindness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emily, the equally protective and sarcastic older sister, whose own trauma in no way limits the support she gives others. Unlike he and Morgan, who had comparatively quickly evolved to friends and brothers, Reid and Emily didn’t start off well, and he knows it’s his fault. He knows that he’d been suffering severe withdrawal symptoms and the drug addiction was heightening his anger, and she was just trying to help. Any time he remembered how he’d treated her in the beginning, a pit of guilt pooled in his stomach, but he was glad that they were past it now. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that no matter how they’d started out, she’d be there if he needed her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>JJ, one of his dearest friends and undoubtedly the mother of the group. Reid adores his mother, and will always love her and care for her, but Reid had been the parent in their house since he was eight years old, when his father began distancing himself. While JJ is first and foremost a friend, she also loves him and worries for him and cares for him the way a mother might. She calls on his vacation and, after their conversations, confirms that he’s eating more than just coffee. She pesters him to get some sun once in a while, and to live a little, instead of reading so many books. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Garcia, the bubbly, exuberant aunt / friend who never has a shortage of heartfelt affirmations or intense care. Reid can honestly say he’d never had anyone worry quite so much about him as Garcia had, and he doesn’t hate the change. Her colorful personality and her flamboyant love and care are a sharp contrast to his simple, earth-tone style, but he finds her presence comforting. Any time he needs anything, he knows exactly what hacker to call. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And of course, Reid knows his role.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s the baby, the kid. The one that everyone feels protective of. The one with a broken past and fluctuating emotions that he tries to keep behind solid steel walls of intelligence that often fail him. The one with a lifetime of unaddressed trauma and undiagnosed autism and the solid intention of leaving it buried. And the others know that, and accept that, and support him despite it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No one’s ever said it, of course. No one’s ever <em>said</em> that any of them are who they are in their dysfunctional family. It’s in their actions. What they do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s the way he’s never allowed to go into a raid first, tucked protectively behind Morgan or Hotch or Emily or Rossi or JJ. It’s the way that, when he’s hurt, everyone’s unconscious instinct is to reach for him as he stumbles. It’s the fact that on the plane rides home, after long cases when everyone is asleep, everyone always lets him have the couch. It’s the way he’s always relegated to the backseat in good humor. It’s the way they tease him and call him names, but immediately shut down the locals who inevitably underestimate him and do the same thing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s the way Hotch gives him quiet words of commendation and private, proud smiles that his father never bothered with. It’s the way Rossi will pat his shoulder or play a quiet game of chess when Reid’s feeling particularly down. It’s the way Morgan calls him “pretty boy” or “kid,” and somehow knows what he’s thinking before he does.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s the way Garcia says she loves him and gives him affection without any reservation, whenever he needs to hear it. It’s the way JJ mothers him and trusts him with her child, her world, and how she’s always there when he needs to talk. It’s the way Emily, even with all her compartmentalization, is always on standby for a word of encouragement or advice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knows he’s loved. He really does. They show it in everything they do. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unfortunately, they’re not the only ones in the world who know how to profile. This unsub managed to pick up on the exact same thing, and Reid’s paying for it now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The unsub they’d been looking for had been a sadist living as an egotistical god-figure in his own mind, and wanted nothing more than everyone to revere him for his fictional status. He tried to make this so by bombing different locations to inspire fear and awe. The bombs were designed not only to kill, but to injure as many people as possible. They profiled that the bomber would be watching the chaos and confusion, reveling in it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The team had been closing in—or at least, they <em>thought</em> they were—when the unsub struck again, this time just outside the police station. Reid and JJ had been on their way to the Medical Examiner’s office to follow up on a discrepancy in one of the victim’s files that might lead to a break in the case. They’d just exited the doors when the SUV they were heading towards exploded.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The shockwave had cracked the pavement and thrown he and JJ off their feet and into the brick wall just behind them. Reid’s world had blinked out, sluggishly fading back into focus as the sights and sounds and smells overwhelmed his brain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His first thought had been to check on JJ, but he couldn’t get his bearing. Where had she been when the bomb went off…? She’d been eleven inches to his left. But where was he now?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He blinked, slowly becoming aware of the shouting surrounding him, the panicked screams of onlookers and the incessant shouts of police officers pouring out of the station. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He felt hands slide under his shoulders, dragging his pliant body away from the burning wreckage, and weakly resisted. He had to find JJ. He—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sh, sh,” a voice said softly, the world darkening around him. He’d thought maybe it was Morgan dragging him away, but—but the hands were rough and tight, and Morgan was never this aggressive. “Just sleep.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reid was absolutely not planning on listening to the man’s instructions, but there was a prick in his neck, a distant flare of panic at the thought of being drugged again…and then nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reid wakes, and instantly regrets it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His head is throbbing, and no migraine he’s ever had can compare to the initial pulsating pain in his temples. That’s got to be a nasty concussion. He didn’t know where he was, what he was doing, or how he’d been hurt. Even with the concussion, his fact-stocked brain retrieves the information on head injuries, and he surmised that with the confusion and loss of consciousness, he had at least a moderate concussion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He reaches up to rub his head, his confusion escalating when he realizes he can’t move his hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You with me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reid glances in the direction of the voice, squinting against the glaring bulb illuminating the otherwise dark space. The space makes even his messy apartment look immaculate. Cluttered benches and tables take up almost every inch of the space, covered in blueprints and schematics and loose nails and bolts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reid’s eyes widen when he catches sight of the man’s face, and his brain instantly recalibrates.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You,” he says, looking at the man he’d interviewed just the day before. Joshua Matthews. “But…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d been a suspect because of his previous work with chemical waste products and his advanced knowledge of chemistry, but he didn’t fit the profile at all. He and Morgan had been sure he wasn’t the unsub—his reactions to the devastation were too organic, too…too normal. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man smirks from his workbench, turning fully to face the injured doctor. “I’m what some call a ‘high-functioning sociopath’, Dr. Reid. I assume you know what that is. Given my environment as a child, you should have surmised that I would be very good at hiding my emotions.” Reid recalls that he’d been the victim of terrible physical and emotional abuse, but their profile had surmised that the unsub had lived a life of privilege and had recently suffered a loss that rewrote his place in the world. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reid had <em>known</em> something was bothering him about the profile, but he didn’t know what. It all makes sense now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matthews inclines his head in a gesture of mock acknowledgement. “Unfortunately, your splendid brain failed you this time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reid’s undeniably flustered by the jab, but he knows now isn’t the time to lose his head. “You’re right. You got me. You’re brilliant, Mr. Matthews.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mr. Matthews smirks. “I know. Unfortunately for you, I also know you’re trying to ingratiate yourself to me. As soon as I found out the BAU was working on my case…well, I was flattered, to be honest. Quite humbled.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reid highly doubts that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anyways, I did some research, and I read many an article about you profilers.” Matthews stands, and Reid can’t suppress a flinch as the man advances on him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reid can’t move; his hands are tightly bound with a ziptie to a half-ring bolted to the ground in front of him. All he can do is tug at the tie in a half-hearted hope of escape, and the position is far too similar to Hankel’s shed for him to remain calm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s a <em>fascinating</em> profession,” he says, sitting down in front of Reid, the way two friends may have a talk. Reid is unnerved by the utter normalcy in the man’s movements. “I know it’s mainly intellectual guesswork, but…your unit has a very impressive success rate. I think it’s very intriguing how you so easily trust a profile based on pure conjecture.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reid bristles, but forces himself to remain cordial. “Profiling is about much more than conjecture. We take the patterns of an unsub’s psychological and behavioral history and use it—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reid doesn’t even see the hit coming. One second, he’s reciting an overview of his profession out of one of his Quantico textbooks, and the next, he’s trying to regain his balance as he’s sent reeling to the side.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His cheekbone aches, the hinge of his jaw spasming in pain, and he feels blood slither from his left nostril and drip onto his cardigan. He rights himself, carefully avoiding Matthews’ eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I just told you I’d done some research. I don’t need you to lecture me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reid nods. “Right. I’m sorry. You probably know more than me, anyhow.” It’s overselling it a little, but nervousness coupled with his concussion is inhibiting his ability to think rationally, and he’s just trying to figure a way out of this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” Matthews says. “I’m sure with a bit of time and effort, though, I could outshine your unit. I’m a quick study.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m sure you are,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Reid thinks sarcastically. He almost says so, then reminds himself that he’s in the presence of a narcissistic murderer who won’t hesitate to kill him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why did you take me?” He asks, trying to redirect the conversation. “We weren’t onto you. You were smart enough to evade us for a long time, and you knew it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matthews smirks again. “Well, I’m realistic, Spencer. I know that if I continue at this pace, I’ll be caught. I’m going to turn myself in once I finish my last project.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reid’s eyes widen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s read every single book on profiling, including Rossi’s. He’s done hours and hours of supplementary study, has studied every single past case he could get his hands on, and he’s sure that he knows more about analytical profiling than most FBI agents. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joshua Matthews does not fit into any category he’s ever studied, and it scares him. Without knowledge to draw on…he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought that might surprise you,” Matthews concedes, leaning back against one of his workbenches, looking relaxed as Reid’s hands shake. “I’ve killed…what, twenty-six? Twenty-seven?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You killed twenty-nine people,” Reid says with barely contained contempt. His eidetic memory allows him to remember every detail of each of their faces, every aspect of their lives. The thought that this monster in front of him can’t even remember the number of lives he’s stolen, when Reid remembers them all in excruciating detail, is infuriating. “Three of them were children.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matthews just laughs at Reid’s hatred. “Right, right. Twenty-nine. Well…” He shrugged. “I’m bored, Spencer. I thought maybe I’d have a challenge with law enforcement, but…you’ve disappointed me. I’m done with this game, so I made a new one.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reid’s brain is working overtime. “What game do you need me for?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He smiles, shrugging. “You’re the profiler. You tell me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reid narrows his eyes, his mind shuddering under the possibilities before he stops thinking, letting his instincts take over. “You’re bored, but you’re also narcissistic, and egotistical. You think that even if you turn yourself in, you’ll be able to escape, from the station or from prison. You wouldn’t turn yourself in, though, if it wasn’t a fundamental part of the game.” He pauses, the pieces coming together in his mind, his heart stuttering at the thought. “Of…of your finale.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Keep going,” Matthews says. “You’re doing wonderfully.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reid does, barely hearing him. “After everything you’ve done, the finale would have to be something big, and extravagant, and very, very public. It would need to be seen by hundreds of people to satisfy you. And if you took me…instead of just someone off the street…you want law enforcement, specifically the BAU, to be affected by it. Local law enforcement hasn’t been very helpful, so you’re focusing on us, because we have the best means of catching you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matthews grins, laughing under his breath, and Reid flinches. “You’re very good. Now let me do a little profiling.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reid can only gasp in surprise as suddenly Matthews is gripping his throat, shoving him down to the ground and looming over him, just like Hankel. Reid’s wrists scream in pain as the tie won’t give and his skin is split, but he can’t focus on anything past his need to <em>breathe</em>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The BAU is comprised of the six of you and a technical analyst,” he says, his fingers pressing into Reid’s throat as he writhes, gasping for air that won’t come. “I’ve been watching you, and I’ve seen how you treat each other. You’re much more than a team. You’re a family, and I find that…just…<em>so</em> interesting! With all the blood and violence you see every day, I would’ve thought you’d distance yourselves from each other, but the relationships are fascinating. And you’re right at the center!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stars and nebulas are bursting in Reid’s eyes, and the words are barely reaching him through a hazy bubble, but he hears enough for his heart to skip several beats. He wants to yell, to scream at this sadistic, unpredictable madman to stay away from his team, but he can’t breathe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hotchner, the fearless leader. He’s got a soft spot for you. Rossi, the wise old man, does, too. And don’t even get me started on Morgan, the self-proclaimed protector. He did a bang-up job of that, didn’t he?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reid’s wheezes echo in the thin air even as his terror spikes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jareau’s a beauty. You two seem close. But she has a wedding ring, and you don’t…sly homewrecker, kiddo,” he says with a wink. Reid bucks feebly, his eyelids fluttering. “Then there’s Prentiss. <em>She’s</em> a headstrong one. She barely let one of the officers <em>look</em> at you when he started getting aggressive at the crime scene. And I assume your tech analyst is the same way.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, <em>finally</em>, the hold on Reid’s throat loosens just enough for him to breathe, and he inhales like a fish out of water, coughing violently under this madman’s shadow. Matthews doesn’t release his neck, just relaxes his hand, though, and Reid is stiff as a board with tension. He can’t even raise his hands to rub his throat or defend himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They all love you, Spencer. So how do you think your team’s going to fare when, even though I’ve turned myself in, given them hints, and presented to them all the information they need to solve the puzzle…they can’t find you in time, and you die?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reid’s heart hammers in fear, his heavy breaths overshadowing the grating silence hung by the words. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course, you can avoid that,” Matthews consoles, his voice dropping to an almost sympathetic tone. Reid knows now how he’s avoided detection—the man’s ability to recreate emotions is stunning, and he’s utterly terrified of him because of it. “You have the option. I have a bomb ready for your fancy jet. It will fit quite nicely in the luggage compartment, and I promise, no one will be the wiser. It will take a long time, but eventually, they’ll leave without finding you, and they’ll die in a glorious explosion on the runway. Of course, I’ll let you go afterwards, but you won’t find me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reid swallows, his eyes squeezing closed involuntarily as he shudders, the hand tightening just enough to remind Reid who’s in charge. The thought of the only people he can rely on and the family he loves dying because of his choices is absolutely staggering, and he thinks his heart might give out. “Please—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can’t finish. Matthews smiles. “What’s your decision?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not a decision at all. Just as he had in Hankel’s shed so many years ago, his answer is immediate. “Kill me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matthews smiles, patting Reid’s cheek with his free hand. “Thought so.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reid feels a hot tear slip from his eye, and hates himself just a little bit more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, none of that,” he says, finally releasing Reid and returning to his bench, leaving Reid to pant on the ground, blood dripping from his wrists and fingertips and nose. “It’s unbecoming of an FBI agent. Don’t worry, it’s going to be…well, Dr. Reid, your finale is going to be magnificent.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reid closes his eyes and prays that his demise won’t be his family’s undoing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matthews is a sadist, but he’s also very intelligent, and Reid sees no way out of the current situation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matthews had knocked him unconscious not long after having made his decision, and when he wakes up, he’s already in the midst of the finale. He wants to be quite literally anywhere else.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He finds, for a panicked moment, that breathing is quite difficult until a hand scoops under his jaw and raises his lolling head, and Reid has trouble getting his bearings as the world blinks back into focus. Matthews stands above him, and Reid’s suddenly very aware of the situation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Finally awake?” He asks, but Reid can only blink up at him, his head swimming. The hand disappears, and Reid’s head is left to loll in limbo as he looks around, the world swimming out of focus. “Just in time. I’m just about done, then I’ll leave you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reid’s other senses slam back into him, and the aches and pains come first. His hands are bound behind him with thin cord that cuts into his skin, his ankles the same, one to each chair leg. There’s another thin cord wound around his chest and arms and waist, keeping him secure to the chair back. Thick leather is wrapped across his throat and he feels it snake along his back to the back of the chair, holding his head up when he can’t seem to do it himself, and the pressure is panicking. He feels claustrophobic, and has to close his eyes to avoid crumbling before he can continue his observations. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s in a dank, foul smelling room with concrete walls and very little light. In front of him is a steel door slightly ajar, and next to that lies several buckets and heaps of plastic packaging. Reid can’t fathom what their for, his slow mind struggling to process the information.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I think we’re all set,” Matthews says from behind him, and Reid flinches, then gasps at the leather constricts around his neck at the movement, heat flaming in his face as the blood flow is stinted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Comfy?” Matthews asks, coming around Reid’s chair. Reid hates that he can’t even follow him with his head, sitting stiff and still to avoid being choked again. He ambles leisurely to a black bag against the wall, and Reid’s heart leaps into his throat as he pulls out what looks like a music stand and a laptop. He opens the laptop, and after a few clicks, begins setting up the camera.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reid’s breath catches.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This can’t be happening. Not again. This <em>can’t</em> be happening <em>again</em>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reid feels his breathing pick up and his eyes widen, and despite everything he knows about panic attacks and trauma and flashbacks, there’s nothing he can do to keep himself from going over the edge.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matthews is going to make them watch, again. He’s going to be hurt in front of his team <em>again</em>. He’s—he’s going to—he <em>can’t</em>—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The slap is quick and brutal, sending him spinning and choking as the leather tightens around his neck. He sucks in a ragged breath before coughing, blinking hazily at the dim ceiling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matthews is frowning. “Don’t freak out on me now. I haven’t even gotten started.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reid closes his eyes and tries very hard to remain in control of his faculties.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not going to hurt you,” Matthews says with a shrug, setting up the tripod and diligently angling the camera right at his face, a satisfied smile stretching over his teeth as he achieves the desired picture. “All you have to do is sit there and look pretty until the…<em>explosive</em> conclusion.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reid doesn’t like the sound of that. Not at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you planning?” He asks, surprised at the steadiness of his voice, though it may be a few notes too high.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Damn. Someone really overestimated your intelligence,” he says, shaking his head in disapproval. “That’s…ah, here we go. See for yourself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reid looks at the camera screen now reflecting his image, and he watches as the blood drains from his face and straight to his toes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He couldn’t see it because he couldn’t turn his neck, but behind him is an intricate bomb the size of a small car.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reid’s heart stops.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matthews holds up a flash-drive and winks. “When I deliver myself to your team, they’ll have this to access the webcam and communicate with you. They won’t be able to track you through it, of course; I’m not that sloppy. I’m rooting for you guys! They need their resident genius to help them figure this out.” Reid gasps in fear as his jaw is grabbed again, and his body goes rigid under the dark, crazed stare of this madman. “But I want them to watch as you slowly crumble under the weight of your fate, knowing that they’re so, <em>so</em> close…and nowhere near enough. And as a <em>special</em> treat…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matthews grins a shark’s grin. “You won’t know how much time is left. It could be an hour…it could be a day…it could be right after I leave here. Every single second could be your last, Spencer. Use them wisely.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matthews smiles. Waves. Leaves.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reid finally cries.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“I’m <em>fine</em>, we need to focus on finding Spence,” JJ argues, forcefully pushing away the medic hovering over her with gauze bandages and pursed lips. “Hotch, come on. I’m fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“JJ, you’re no use to anyone, especially Reid, if you end up having a head wound that renders you incapacitated. Let the medics do their work, and I promise we’ll fill you in. Alright?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>JJ doesn’t look happy, but Hotch sees reluctant resignation, and nods in thanks to the medical personnel before returning to the front of the police station, riddled with cracks and gouges. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anything, Morgan?” He asks, approaching Morgan and the police chief.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, nothing,” Morgan says, his shoulders tense in fear. Hotch feels the same. “The cameras all show the same thing—a guy in a cop’s uniform and a baseball cap dragging Reid away after the blast threw him. All we know is that he’s Caucasian. He completely ignored JJ, even though she would’ve been easier to carry, and was also unconscious. Reid was targeted.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hotch feels familiar dread pool in his gut, and looks down for just a second to redirect the dread away from his face, rather into his clenched hands. He can’t lose it now. His team is counting on him. Reid is counting on him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, call Garcia, have her go through cameras on the SUV and see if they show a different angle of the unsub planting the bomb. Have her check surrounding cameras for any suspicious activity on the streets surrounding the station—cars that weren’t parked for more than ten minutes, any suspicious pickups, anything. Once JJ’s cleared, you two head to the ME office and check up on the discrepancy. I’ll have Prentiss and Rossi go through the reports and see if there’s any reason he’d target Reid. Chief Hall, I need every available unit on the streets canvassing for possible locations the unsub might strike next. It’s going to be big, and flashy, which should narrow it down. I’ll deliver a more detailed profile in a moment.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hotch knows that Chief Hall of the Portland PD has been less than forthcoming thus far, and he knew he’d lose his temper eventually, but he doesn’t want it to be now. “All due respect, Agent, I think my units are better served working the scenes—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, I’ve been polite, but let’s get one thing straight right now,” Hotch says, standing to his full height. He sees, out of the corner of his eye, a satisfied smile on Morgan’s face. “I’ve got an agent out there in the hands of an unstable bomber, taken right out from under our nose, and I will not rest until he’s found. I expect you to show the same dedication to this case. We find Reid, we find the unsub. If you don’t think you can do that, you’re more than welcome to sit this case out. Am I clear?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hotch is at his wit’s end, and he’s not about to let an egotistical man with no consideration for other’s safety stop him from finding Reid.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Chief Hall lets out an indignant breath, but doesn’t challenge Hotch or his words. It’s enough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought so,” Hotch says, eyes dark. “Get your men out on the streets sooner rather than later. You’re more than welcome to file a formal complaint against me after this is over, but right now, I need your cooperation.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He leaves Captain Hall with his words, nodding to Morgan, who goes quickly to JJ’s side to wait for her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hotch walks through the shattered glass doors, minding the debris, and makes his way quickly to their workspace, giving Prentiss and Rossi his hurried instructions. They need to revisit the profile, drastically. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re missing something,” he says aloud, glancing at the board filled with debris and chaos, bodies torn apart by the explosions or burned beyond recognition. “There’s something about this unsub that we’re just not seeing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, could we have gotten the drive wrong?” Rossi suggests, looking up from his report.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, he’s clearly an egomaniac,” Prentiss says, pensive. “And a sadist, based on the level of suffering most of the victims experience before they die. Has Garcia had any luck with privileged individuals in or around the area who’ve recently suffered a loss?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’s come up with six names, all clear,” Hotch says, staring at the board. What he would give to have Reid here. He’d figure it out in a heartbeat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, could it be that our unsub <em>wasn’t</em> privileged?” Rossi says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you mean?” Hotch asks, willing to consider any angle if it meant finding Reid and the bomber.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, what if the unsub, instead of being privileged, was exactly the opposite—destitute, or repressed, or abused? Growing up with all his desires and feelings overshadowed by his situation would be the perfect breeding for an egotistical sociopath.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Once he reached the age of adulthood, he began to realize that he’d been treated unfairly, and is now taking out his anger on everyone else, because his world revolves around him,” Hotch mutters to himself, the pieces clicking slowly but surely. “He’d want everyone else to suffer, because he suffered.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Prentiss is on the next step before Hotch can even utter the order. “Garcia?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have you found him? Is he okay?” She rushes, her voice small and frightened. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, but we might have a theory,” Prentiss says, looking at Hotch. “’Cross-check the list of original suspects from the chemical and engineering angle with records indicating poverty, or abuse, or something similar, instead of a privileged lifestyle.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh. Um…well, that’s a paradigm shift,” Garcia says, fingers clacking quickly on her keyboard. “Ah. Okay, well, that reduces it to an entirely new list of smart-but-dangerous potential mad scientists.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can you narrow it down to those who live in the comfort zone?” Hotch asks, praying that they’re onto something and not just wasting time that Reid doesn’t have. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A few seconds of clacking. “It’s still fifteen names.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How many of those are white males from the ages of thirty to forty-five who live alone?” Prentiss asks, eyes widening in forbidden hope that they might actually have a concrete lead. “If he’s as egotistical as we think, he won’t be able to handle anyone else’s needs, or think anyone is worth that much of his time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another couple seconds. “Oh—OH! Four names! I like that a lot! That’s much better!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Garcia, go through financial records for those four, and see if any of them have made suspicious purchases over the last two months, involving standard ingredients for homemade explosives.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am searching the ends of the earth for this info, and…got it! Joshua Matthews, grew—oh. Oh, goodness. Grew up in foster homes for twelve years, and was admitted to the hospital over two dozen times in that period. He did display sociopathic tendencies during that time that earned him a lot of frequent flyer miles at therapy, but they chalked it up to his upbringing and assumed he’d be fine once he was out of the situation.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, evidently they were wrong,” Rossi says darkly, standing quickly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Garcia?” Hotch says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Addresses sent, home and work. Bring my baby home.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We will,” Prentiss assures, hanging up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The three profilers walk quickly to the front as Hotch dials Morgan. “Hotch? Hey, JJ and I are on our way to the ME office.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Change of plans,” Hotch says as they climb quickly into the SUV. “We’ve got a lead.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reid blinks thickly and tries to slow his breathing, the feel of the leather strap across his throat becoming difficult to handle. He’s long since given up twisting out of the restraints, and has only succeeded in cutting into his wrists and ankles, blood dripping steadily from each fresh cut. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The screen remains focused on his image, and he can only stare straight ahead, so all he can do is look at himself and the bomb and ponder his fate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matthews had said that he wouldn’t reveal the time limit, and that was the wrong thing to tell Reid. His heart is shuddering in terror, his body heaving in breaths that barely squeeze past the leather. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thinks furiously, but his IQ is useless. He doesn’t—he doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know what to look for. He can’t even properly examine the room he’s in. If he has to guess, he’s somewhere in the extensive tunnel system under Portland. It’s famous for hidden nooks and crannies and entire cities, and searching them all will take much more time than they have. He thinks. Perhaps in the next five seconds, he’s going to be incinerated.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He closes his eyes, forcing his brain to think. If that’s all he’s good for, he can at least do that, so he’ll have a profile ready to deliver when he finally gets in contact with his team. He’s probably in the tunnels, and if he has to guess, he’s under a location significant to Portland—something that, when destroyed, will cripple the city. Something like a significant tourist attraction, or landmark.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it must have some kind of significance to Matthews. He’s erratic, Reid will absolutely admit that, but no one can completely alter their behavior to be someone they aren’t. Inevitably, tics and preferences will shine through. Reid must be beneath something that means a lot to the unsub. Somewhere that something significant happened. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reid’s attention tuns back to the timer, inevitably, or lack thereof, and he feels his heart rate speed up again. Usually sadists liked to have assurance that their victim would be terrified—it was part of their experience—but this was a very interesting way to go about it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Most bombs had timers explicitly for the purpose of fear. Something about watching the dispassionate numbers clock the remainder of your life was infinitely more terrifying than if there was no clock. Reid is terrified, of course, but it’s a constant throb of fear mitigated by the length of time he’s felt it. He’s sure he’d be even more terrified if there had been a clock.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So what was the reason?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To distract himself from the pain in his body, both from the explosion and his subsequent encounters, and the oppressive threat of looming death, Reid continued to build the profile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Putting his family in danger was the last thing he wanted, but that didn’t mean he’d go down without a fight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s not here, Hotch,” Morgan calls, frustrated and angry after the team has finished clearing the apartment. Rossi, Prentiss, and JJ have just finished clearing the workplace. “Dammit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright. That means he’s on the move, or he has a secondary location,” Hotch reasons, ever the voice of reason. Morgan sometimes resents his boss’s uptight nature, but right now, the man’s ability to remain level-headed is something that he greatly appreciates. “Garcia, are there any warehouses or abandoned buildings in Matthews’ name?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Garcia, waiting on the line, took a second of silence to retrieve the information. “No, nothing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What about in his family’s names?” Morgan asks, desperate for an answer just so he’ll have something to <em>do</em>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing there, either.” Garcia’s voice is shaking. Morgan doesn’t blame her. “Can I do something? Give me something to do. I need to feel helpful.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ll let you know,” Hotch says, eyes dropping in a moment of compassion and worry. He goes to hang up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait a sec,” Morgan says, his mind racing as he considers all the angles, trying to piece together the new profile. “Baby, see if the bomb sites so far have any relation to Matthews’ history.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh! I can do that! I can totally do that. Give me some time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re the best, mama,” he said, hanging up and giving the phone back to Hotch. He thinks of Reid, inevitably remembering Hankel and those videos, and his blood boils and freezes at the same time. “Hotch, man, we gotta do something. Reid’s out there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know. Keep your head, Morgan. We’ll find him.” Hotch pats his shoulder with a barely-concealed expression of primal concern.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Morgan wants to believe him. He really does. It’s just difficult knowing his kid brother is out there, again, and they can’t help him, again. Rubbing a hand down his face, leaving the CSI unit to do their work, he follows Hotch to the SUV. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hotch pauses just outside the door, his phone ringing. If Morgan hadn’t known better, he could swear that the stoic man rolls his eyes. ”It’s Chief Hall,” he clarifies, and Morgan nods. “Agent Hotchner.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Morgan pauses, half-listening as his body thrums with nervous energy, impatiently tapping his foot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, we’re at the apartment now. There’s no sign of him.” A pause. A furrowed brow. “What do you mean, that makes sense?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Morgan’s interested now, and he glances up just in time to see the blood drain from Hotch’s face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re on our way.” Hotch is moving before the call has even disconnected.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hotch? What’s going on?” Morgan yells, barely staying on his boss’s heels. The SUV is peeling out of the parking lot before Morgan even closes the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hotch’s knuckles are white on the steering wheel. “Joshua Matthews just turned himself in to the Portland PD, confessing to all twenty-nine murders, all of the bombings, and Reid’s kidnapping.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If looks could kill, Joshua Matthews would be a puddle on the floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emily stood behind the one-way mirror, watching the self-assured jackass in front of her relax in his chair, a satisfied smile on his face. His hands, handcuffed to the table, were folded peacefully in front of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What she’d give to knock his perfect teeth in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s he been doing?” Hotch asks, joining her at the window, a file in his hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emily shook her head, eyes pinched in frustrated worry. “Nothing. Just…sitting there smiling. Hotch, I swear, turn off the camera for five minutes, I’ll get us a location.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Off the record, if he doesn’t give us anything, I may conveniently disappear for a few minutes,” he says, and Emily’s only seen his eyes this dark a handful of times. She doesn’t want to see it again. “I’m going to try first. The others are working with the police to narrow down possible sites.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emily nods. She watches as Matthews grins wide as Hotch comes in, settling back in his seat, looking like a typical guy watching football. Emily is unnerved by him. Hates him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where’s my agent, Mr. Matthews?” Hotch asks. Emily can’t see his face, but she knows she’d rather not be on the receiving end of the glare he’s probably giving.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matthews seems unperturbed. “If I told you, that would ruin the game.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, yeah. Emily has a <em>list</em> of things she’d like to do to this prick. She’s sure Morgan has his own list. Perhaps they can compare notes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wasn’t aware we were playing a game,” Hotch says, leaning back. “Could you please explain the rules?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm…I wanna talk to Morgan,” Matthews says, looking away, sly smile still in place. “I have a feeling he’ll put on a better show for me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The only indication that Hotch is angry is the controlled tilt of his head. “Why aren’t I putting on a show?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, you’re…you’re not expressive enough!” Matthews says, and there’s an absurd mixture of glee and anger in his eyes, and Emily doesn’t know what to make of it. She’s <em>trained</em> to analyze emotions and tics, but…this seems completely random to her. He’s a sociopath. He shouldn’t be able to express emotions like this, but they look genuine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on, aren’t you pissed at me? I took the BAU’s kid! You should be…I don’t know, yelling at me, or looking terrified, or crying, or something. Spencer cried, why can’t you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emily almost stalks in a shoots him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The image of Reid crying for mercy in that god-awful wooden chair in Hankel’s shed floods her mind, and she’s eternally grateful it’s Hotch in there and not her. She couldn’t handle it. All the compartmentalization in the world would not stop her anger from overflowing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it’s Hotch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not in the habit of giving serial killers what they want,” he says. “Now can you please explain the rules of your game, so I know how to play?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matthews rolls his eyes. “Fine. Here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He unbuttons the top two buttons of his shirt, fishing around in what Emily assumes is a sewn in pocket before throwing a flash drive on the table. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emily’s eye twitches in barely suppressed rage. The Portland PD needs to step up their game. How the hell did they miss that?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is this?” Hotch asks, picking up the drive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matthews smiles. Emily shivers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s the game.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is it safe, Garcia?” Hotch asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As far as I can tell, their computer guy set it up the best he could,” Garcia’s voice comes over the phone in Morgan’s hand. Emily watches as JJ sits in the chair, a bandage on her forehead, hand hovering over the mouse. “JJ, you can open it. It shouldn’t wipe out the system, or anything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emily holds her breath as JJ opens the attached file, Morgan shifting nervously beside her. If he doesn’t get an outlet soon, preferably in the form of a Joshua Matthews, she knows he’s going to lose it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>On the screen, a program pops up, taking up the entire laptop screen with gray static, a loading bar in the middle. “It’s some kind of streaming network,” Garcia says, the muted sound of clacking keys filtering through the phone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can you trace what he’s streaming?” Rossi asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, it’s covered in layers and layers of rerouted IP addresses and dummy servers and psycho idiosyncrasies,” Garcia says apologetically. “It’s got crazy written all over it. It’s probably a video of dead cats, or something. Oh, goodness, now I need to watch a kitten video.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She stops talking as the loading bar reaches completion, and the screen blinks black.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emily blinks, and her heart stops.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” JJ says, putting a shaking hand over her mouth as her eyes widen, transfixed on the screen. Distantly, Emily feels herself put a hand on her shoulder, but she can’t move, either.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s dead,” Morgan says, putting his hands on his head and turning away from the screen. “He’s <em>dead</em>. The son of a bitch is dead when I get my hands on him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>On the screen is Reid. His hands are behind his back, and his head is held uncomfortably still by what looks like a belt around his throat. His eyes are closed, and the sound of his thin wheezing is horribly loud in the speakers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Behind him is an enormous bomb. Emily thinks she might be sick.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When they start talking, his eyes snap open, and settle on the screen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Guys,” he says, hope and relief and fear flooding his expressive eyes. Emily feels her heart crack.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Reid, are you injured?” Hotch asks immediately, bending down to look into the webcam, his hand on JJ’s back in comfort.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Um…not badly,” he assures, the dried blood on his face telling a different story. “Moderate concussion, a couple cuts and bruises, but…I’m alright.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hotch’s eyes are pinched in repressed worry and anger, but he nods. “Okay. We’re trying to find you, Reid, just hang on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did he—” Reid coughs, closing his eyes in pain. She hears Rossi curse in Italian beside her, turning away for a brief second. “Did Matthews explain…?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, all he said was something about a game,” Emily says, keeping her voice carefully toneless. “Did he tell you more?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reid swallows with difficulty, his face pinching in discomfort as he looks at the ceiling. “Yes. It—yeah. I’ve been trying—trying to build a profile. Um…” he takes a shuddering breath. “You have to—to find me before the bomb goes off. Though I assume that was obvious. Sorry. Uh…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re doing fine, Reid,” Hotch assures. “How much time is left on the bomb?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reid swallows again, convulsively, and takes a strangled breath. “He said—he said he—he wouldn’t tell us. He said…he said ‘You won’t know how much time is left. It could be an hour…it could be a day…it could be right after I leave here. Every single second could be your last, Spencer. Use them wisely.’ Those were his exact words.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emily’s hand curls into a tight fist on the back of JJ’s chair, and her heart is hammering.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I…I have some more…conjectures,” Reid says carefully. “But can I…can I just…take a second…?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His voice is suspiciously choked, and Emily’s heart shatters.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re here, Reid,” JJ says quietly, tears shining in her eyes even as she blinks them back, straightening her back and her shoulders. “We’re here. Take a minute. We’re right here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’re right here, but they’re so, so far away, too.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hehe. I’m evil. </p><p>Thanks so much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Reid shares his profile, and they compare notes, but it’s still not enough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>JJ’s heart is clenched in worry at the sight of her best friend restrained on the screen, but she’s just glad Matthews isn’t near him. Watching Hankel beat him and subsequently resurrect him, knowing she’d had a part in him being taken, was almost too much for her. Now, he’d been taken when she was just next to him, unconscious.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She knows, logically, that there was nothing she could have done, but she still hates herself for it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Garcia’s compiling a list of locations significant in Joshua Matthews’ history and cross-referencing it with the bomb sites,” Hotch says to Reid, who is still breathing erratically. JJ’s heart clenches. “You said you’re probably somewhere of great importance to him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reid tries to nod, only for his face to screw up in pain as his throat is pulled. “Yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>JJ sees Hotch’s eyes darken. “Alright. JJ, stay with him,” he mumbles. “Reid, we’re doing everything we can. Keep working with JJ, see what you come up with.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reid smiles faintly. “You got it, boss.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A shadow of a worried smile quirks on Hotch’s face. He nods to JJ, then sweeps away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reid’s eyes are tired, but they home in on JJ now that everyone else is gone. “Is that…from the explosion?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>JJ blinks, unsure what he’s talking about, before remembering the bandage on her forehead. “Oh, yeah,” she says, absently touching the white gauze. “It’s not bad. I’m okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He closes his eyes, taking a shaky breath. “Good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She hesitates. “How’re you holding up?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reid’s lips curl in a smile, but she knows him well enough to see the shrouded bitterness. “Not…not great, JJ. Um…it just…I’m kind of claustrophobic.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And in pain</span>
  </em>
  <span>, she finishes for him, because she knows he won’t do it herself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nods. “Okay. Let’s break it down. What do we know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reid swallows, wincing. “He’s…a sadist. An egomaniac.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>JJ nods. “He targeted the BAU directly, so this was for us. Let’s focus on that for a minute. Why was it for us?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reid glances at the ceiling, breathing slowly. “He…he seemed…fascinated with the family dynamics. That’s what he said. He’d profiled…each of you in…in relation to me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>JJ’s eyes narrows. “How so?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He swallows. “He said that…that the relationships were fascinating, and…I was right at the center.” He closes his eyes, and JJ’s heart twists. “I—I…I don’t like him…so near you. He’s…he’s dangerous, JJ.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know,” she consoles. “We know. We’re more worried about you right now, Reid. He’s under heavy guard, lock and key…he’s locked down in an interrogation room. He’s not going anywhere.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reid swallows again, and nods. “Okay. Just…be careful.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smiles. “Of course. Now, just…why would he be so obsessed with the familial relationships? He’s a sociopath.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s—that’s another thing,” he says, eyes widening like the idea has just come to him. JJ winces. He must be really panicking if he’s forgetting to mention things. “His—JJ, his ability to recreate emotions is—is <em>stunning</em>. I can’t—they seem organic, honestly. If I didn’t know—know better, I’d say he was a sociopath who could—just…<em>choose</em> when to feel emotions. Not just mimic them, but <em>feel</em>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>JJ allows her thoughts to move as rapidly as they’re able. “Then you’re right. You’re somewhere with a lot of significance to him. If he’s so obsessed with the family aspect of the BAU, then it might be something to do with his family.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reid’s eyes widen. “JJ, you said he was abandoned.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>JJ tilts her head. “Yeah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where? Where was he abandoned?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>JJ’s eyes widen with Reid’s, and she shoots up from the chair. “I’ll get Hotch.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Garcia frantically types, her long nails clacking against the keys. “I’m not getting any official records. I know he was picked up by a policewoman on duty, taken to the station, and put into foster care two days later.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Keep looking, baby girl,” Morgan pushes, his voice wound tight. She feels the same. Her blood is buzzing with fear. She needs Reid <em>safe</em>. “It’s gotta be somewhere.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The tiniest rock on the farthest planet will not remain unturned,” she promises, ending the call.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She cross-references her list of Portland’s locations with her list of Matthews’ foster homes, schools, and hangouts, but she doesn’t see anything that fits the bill.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, I will find you, you sneaky little weasel,” she mutters as she continues to type. She checks the date he went into foster care, then searches for any unclaimed children being dropped off at churches, established foster homes, or hospitals two weeks before then, but comes up empty.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She grunted in frustration. “You are a slippery devil. But fear not…Penelope Garcia is not one to be trifled with, especially when you…hurt one of…my…<em>doves</em>…oh my God!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Morgan! Morgan! My chocolate Adonis!” She yelled into the phone as soon as Morgan picked up. “I think I found him!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where?” His answer was immediate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay so, I broadened my search to include landmarks in Portland, or places of heavy foot traffic, where a child would be discovered. Poor babies, there’s an <em>obscene</em> number of child abandonment files, but that’s not the point. I found an <em>archaic, </em>like, belonged to the dinosaurs when mommy dinosaur got rid of an egg archaic, report of an abandoned child a week before his first appearance in foster care from Powell’s Books. It’s a <em>huge</em> tourist location, and the employees didn’t realize his parents weren’t around until closing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He said his name was Joshua Matthews and that his mother had told him to wait for her while she went to get something, but she never came back. The mother was never found; she lived with three of her older sons in Seattle, but they’d disappeared by the time authorities went to check up on them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s gotta be it,” Morgan says, his voice alight in hope, and Garcia’s heart soars. “You rock, mama. I’m taking you for a steak dinner as soon as we’re home.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Forget steak, just go save my 187,” she orders. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will. Thanks, Penelope.” He hangs up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Garcia’s always hated this part. She’s done all she can, she’s helped with what she needs to…and now she has to wait. Wait as her family goes off to fight the evils of the world while she sits in her bubble in Quantico, waiting for news.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sighs, her fingers shaking, and tries to make herself useful, but she can barely see past the tears blurring her vision.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good afternoon, Mr. Matthews,” Rossi says as he enters the interrogation room. “You’ve caused a lot of trouble.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rossi sits calmly across from the sociopath with the curled lips, trying very hard to keep his rage contained. “Agent Rossi. Nice to finally meet you. Are you going to give me a better show than Agent Hotchner?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rossi smiles. It’s cold and brittle. “I sure hope not. I’m just here to ask you a couple of questions.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matthews snorts. “I’m not going to tell you where your agent is. That would ruin the game.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, that’s fine,” Rossi says, waving a hand as he shrugs. “I like a good game myself. In fact, I’ve got a chessboard, if you play.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matthews eyes spark, but Rossi can’t quite identify the emotion. “Seems like a bad time for a game.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d agree, but you’ve made it very clear this won’t end until we play yours,” Rossi says with narrowed eyes. Matthews smirks. “Yes or no?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matthews tilts his head. “Why not? If you win, I might even give you a hint.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rossi smiles. They already know where Reid is. Morgan had wanted to race over as soon as he got the location, but Hotch managed to talk him down enough to wait for the bomb squad to clear the area. Since they still don’t have a time limit, they have to operate under the assumption that the bomb could go off at any moment, so evacuation is taking precedence. Emily’s leading that, and JJ is still keeping Reid company. The kid isn’t looking good, but Rossi pushes the memory away. It’s not the time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rossi’s job is to figure out how much time is left.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sounds interesting,” he concedes, picking up his briefcase and snapping open the clasps, unloading his chess set. His heart twists when he considers that Reid should be on the other side of the table, but quickly quashes the sentiment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Black or white?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matthews smirks. “Black.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rossi inclines his head. Self-assured enough to give Rossi the handicap. Classic narcissistic behavior. The guy’s a cocktail of psychological phenomena. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, tell me about yourself, Joshua,” Rossi says, moving a pawn. “What’s the story of Joshua Matthews?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matthews smiles calmly, moving his own pawn. Rossi moves a knight. “I’d say you know a lot about me already. I’ve heard your technical analyst is quite good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So you’ve done a bit of research on us, I see,” Rossi says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A bit. Enough to know you’re a lovely little family. How does it feel knowing your boy’s having trouble breathing? That he’s probably a little achy from his bearing? He’s gotta be freaked out with the bomb behind him, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matthews is obviously waiting for Rossi to lose his composure and fly off the handle. Had it been Morgan or JJ, he may very well have gotten his wish. Unfortunately for him, Rossi’s an experienced interviewer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rossi only returns the placid smile, moving his knight again. “Check.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matthews flicks his eyes to the board and scowls the tiniest bit, evading Rossi’s trap with the ease of a veteran. “You’re like Agent Hotchner. You’re too stoic for your own good. Come on, get pissed at me!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rossi tilts his head. “You want me to get mad? Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matthews is obviously getting antsy, now. His cuffed hands are fidgeting, and his mouth is pressed in a flat line. His eyebrow twitches every couple of seconds. “I took the youngest member of your family. That should piss you off. Or do you not care about him? Do you just not give a damn about the kid? He looks up to you quite a lot, David. That’s cold.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rossi’s eyes narrow, and he has to take a deep breath before allowing himself to continue. “I do care about him. Watching people interact doesn’t mean you know anything about their family, Joshua.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matthews smirks, but it’s tinged with simmering rage, and Rossi is astounded at the shift from the earlier, complacent man. Reid was right. Sitting in front of him is a cocktail of a sociopath, a narcissist, an egomaniac, and a budding psychotic. He’s never seen a more diverse psychological state of mind exist in any one person.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matthews’ eyebrow twitches again, but Rossi steadily moves his rook, mapping out the strategy in his mind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re a bunch of cold-hearted assholes, aren’t you?” Matthews says, his fists tight on the table. “I took your boy, and you’re sitting here playing chess. What’s wrong with you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, we could talk about that for days,” Rossi admits calmly, waiting for Matthews to make his move, though it doesn’t seem like it’ll happen anytime soon. “But if you make your next move, I’ll tell you what’s wrong with you, because I’ve finally figured it out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matthews still, and then smiles, slow and snarling and angry. “Really. Big bad profiler here to tell me all about my issues.” He jerkily moves a pawn, and Rossi smiles to himself. “Tell me how screwed up I am, David. Please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re doing all this because mommy didn’t love you,” Rossi says simply, waving a hand as if it’s the most casual declaration in the world. Matthews’ expression darkens rapidy, but Rossi doesn’t let it deter him. “Your mind is analytical, but you let yourself become overcome with emotion too easily. You saw other familial relationships growing up, after your mother abandoned you. Nature will tell you that the youngest of a group is the most protected, but that’s not how it went with you. It drive you <em>nuts</em> thinking that all these other kids got to have mommies and daddies and siblings who loved them, but not you, right?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, mom had to get rid of one of the mouths to feed, so she kept your older brothers and discarded you like yesterday’s trash.” Matthews’ lips are curled in an ugly snarl, and his eyes glint like rusted iron, but Rossi continues, brutal and cold and true. “The analyst in you was fascinated, but the narcissist in you was <em>angry</em>. Are you angry, Joshua? Is that why you want to take it out on Reid, because he’s the youngest? Because we love him when mommy didn’t love you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“<em>Shut up</em>!” Matthews finally shouts, his composer snapping, just as Rossi intended. The exclamation is coupled by his sudden rise, and he makes to flip the table, but it’s bolted to the ground. His cuffed hands don’t have a chance, so he settles for sending the chess board flying, pieces scattering like the ash and debris following his explosions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rossi waits, glaring at the seething young man in front of him. “You don’t have a <em>single </em>idea what you’re talking about.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rossi leans back, appearing genuinely confused. “I thought you were a big bad profiler yourself. I feel like I’m close to the mark.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re <em>not</em>!” He shouts, eyes drawn together in fury as he spits words of contempt, Rossi waiting patiently. “You don’t have a single thing of relevance! I’ll just blow your boy up right now, if that’s what you want!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rossi starts, and he has to physically restrain his eyes from widening. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll come back to finish our game when you’ve calmed down,” he says quietly, excusing himself quickly from the room, leaving Matthews to shout at him. It seems that Matthews himself doesn’t know what he’s revealed, but Rossi knows.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He locks eyes with Hotch and Morgan, who’ve been listening, the second the door closes. “You get that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Morgan’s fists are tight in barely-suppressed anger, but Hotch’s face is drawn in muted fear and reluctant understanding.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s no timer. He’s hiding a manual trigger.”</span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>A/N: Hehe. Hello. I’m still evil.</p><p>Hope you enjoyed the chapter! You guys have been super supportive, so thanks so much! </p><p>One or two chapters left :D Love you guys!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Reid is painfully aware of the numbness in his hands, and he’s finding it harder and harder to keep calm.</p><p>He knows it’s been hours, and without a clock to reference, he can’t reconcile the constant undertow of fear with the utter silence around him, save his breathing and the staticky chatter from the police station on the other side of the screen. His eyes are closed, and he’s trying to calm his palpitating heart.</p><p>“Reid?” Hotch’s voice shocks him out of his thought, and he slowly opens his eyes, his boss’s worried face hovering beside JJ’s in the screen. “Are you alright?”</p><p>Reid goes to nod out of reflex, then stops, the tight leather almost choking him. “Uh…I suppose.”</p><p>Hotch’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t comment on the obvious lie. “Okay, we’ve made some progress, but there’s a problem. Do you think you can handle it?”</p><p>Reid swallows. Hotch usually trusts him with difficult information. It must be quite bad if he’s asking Reid’s permission. “Yes.” If he doesn’t find out, his brain will continue to run wild with the possibilities, and that may be worse.</p><p>Hotch takes a quiet breath, putting a hand on JJ’s shoulder. JJ’s eyeing Hotch, concerned. Perhaps she doesn’t know yet, either.</p><p>“Rossi has been interviewing Matthews, and we’ve gotten some more information.” Hotch glances at the camera, a shadow of hesitance in his eyes. “There’s no timer on the bomb because he’s hiding a manual trigger. We’re worried that if we alert him that we know, he’ll set it off, so we can’t search him just yet.”</p><p>Reid blinks.</p><p>He’s gotten morbidly used to the consistent thrum of fear in his chest. The not having a clock was debilitating at first, and terrifying throughout, but at least he he’s gotten used to that.</p><p>Now, he has to drastically reassess and reallocate his emotions, because this might be worse.</p><p>A twitch of a finger, a casual flick of one hand, and this entire block would cease to exist. Streets and labyrinths for miles would cave from the compromised infrastructure. Reid would be lucky if his teeth survived the blast. He’d be vaporized.</p><p>Perhaps it might have been better to remain in the ignorant dark, after all.</p><p>“Okay,” he chokes out, and the hoarseness of his voice has little to do with the restricting belt, this time.</p><p>JJ looks infinitely paler. Hotch’s eyes, in contrast, are dark storm clouds. “We’re working to get the bomb squad permission to get in there, but we’re having to make Matthews think he’s won, too. Prentiss is there doing crowd control, and Morgan’s on his way. Rossi and I are going to continue the interview.”</p><p>Reid is reluctantly glad his teammates are so close. Of course, he’d give anything to have them safely tucked on the other side of the world, away from the monstrous thing behind him. Despite that, he’s been alone, and the knowledge that they’re close is comforting. Hotch wouldn’t let them close unless he thought he could keep control of the situation.</p><p>“Okay,” Reid says again, distantly upset that his mile-a-minute mind has to fall back on the safety of this one word.</p><p>“Okay,” Hotch echoes. “Your job is to breathe and let us work. Got that?”</p><p>Reid bites his lip to keep from saying okay, taking a shallow breath. “Yes.”</p><p>Hotch nods, squeezes JJ’s shoulder, and retreats from the frame.</p><p>“Spence?” JJ asks, her voice hesitant.</p><p>Reid closes his eyes, determined to end his bout of uselessness and start using his mind. “JJ, how far is the police station from the library?”</p><p>It’s not the question JJ’s expecting, but she answers quickly, nonetheless. “Um…eight minutes? Driving, I think.”</p><p>“No, the distance.”</p><p>“Oh. Um…I think a little over a mile.”</p><p>Reid keeps his eyes closed and his breathing even, his mind scrambling through the files of his memory for any sign of radio waves and microwaves and formulas. He draws on his knowledge of bombs and timers, and while it’s a somewhat small stockpile compared to some of his other topics of interests, it’s enough to start.</p><p>“Radio waves travel approximately 186,282 miles per second,” he voices, his mind pulling facts from his memory like he had a thousand times before, despite the shakiness of his situation. “This is equal to the velocity of light in a vacuum. Matthews will have no trouble detonating it in terms of location—the bomb will go off immediately.”</p><p>Reid opens his eyes just in time to catch the end of JJ’s flinch, but his emotions are writhing beneath his fractured shield of intellect that he is desperately clinging to. He can figure this out. He is a genius. He <em>must </em>figure this out.</p><p>He breathes, and considers. Reid is analytical and practical. He knows, practically and factually, that he is more intelligent than most people in the world. There are few people in the world who know as much as he does about as many topics as he does. To supplement that, the BAU has ensured that he didn’t turn out a cold, unfeeling hermit, solely surrounded by books and research papers and scholarly articles.</p><p>Even his eidetic memory can’t count the number of times Morgan has shown up at his door to drag him to the park for some sun, or the number of times Prentiss has shoved a sports drink at him and confiscated his coffee mug on particularly caffeine-heavy days. He can’t quantify the joy the swells in his chest at Hotch’s proud smiles, things his father never gave him, or the humor in his heart at Rossi’s infinite jokes and support. He can’t express his love for JJ or her family and how they’ve accepted him so wholly, and he can’t understand Garcia’s sixth sense that always seems to alert her when he’s feeling down.</p><p>While his logical intelligence is staggering, his emotional intelligence is nothing to be overlooked, either, and that is why he will beat Matthews. Because Matthews thinks that he can best Reid, but where Matthews has only his hatred and his anger and his ego, a lifetime of loneliness, Reid has a lifetime of loneliness and the unwavering balm of family.</p><p>Morgan and Prentiss are in the crossfire, too close to a bomb that could wipe half of Portland off the map. Hotch and Rossi are facing down a murderer and egocentric madman. JJ is maintaining her mask of strength and fortitude to ensure that he can keep his head, and poor Garcia is probably giving herself carpal tunnel to unearth the tiniest shred of information to help with his rescue.</p><p>Matthews is good, but Reid is better. Where Matthews is alone, Reid is surrounded, and that is his trump card in a battle of their arguably brilliant minds.</p><p>“It will be small, but not untraceable,” he tells JJ, and her eyes perk up, zeroing in on his as he starts delivering what little profile he can gather from the information he has. “Look for things the initial search missed—a pen, a tie-tac, something small and innocuous. You say he keeps his hands visible?”</p><p>JJ nods, the cogs in her mind visibly racing almost as fast as his. “Rossi said he keeps them on the table, for the most part. He lashed out at a chess board earlier, too, so now they’re bolted to the bar on the table, anyways.”</p><p>“He’s too good to leave it to chance,” Reid surmises, eyes narrowing as the list of possibilities in his head shortens with every new thought. “It will be something on his person he can activate without his hands. Something with his shoes, or—”</p><p>Reid stops, his mind screeching to a halt.</p><p>While his eidetic memory allowed him to remember every word he’d ever read, and considerably improved the rest of his memory capacity, sometimes he forgot things. He’d forgotten Garcia’s name, after all. However, an inconsistency in one of his memories from the brief stint in Matthews’ workshop screams for his attention, and he understands.</p><p>He swallows, and breathes, and dares to hope. “I know what the detonator is.”</p><p>…</p><p>Rossi carefully carries the warm cup of coffee into the interrogation room. Matthews looks up when he approaches, his eyes still stormy from their last less-than-stellar encounter, but he looks more in control of his emotions.</p><p>“Someone looks like they’re feeling better,” Rossi says, setting the cup of coffee within Matthews’ reach and unlocking the cuffs from the bar, reattaching them to his wrists so he’s free to drink. Matthews doesn’t make a move for the drink, but Rossi didn’t expect him to.</p><p>“Here to finish your game?” Matthews sneers.</p><p>Rossi cocks his head. “I thought it was your game.”</p><p>Matthews snorts. “We can play chess all day long, old man, but your brain isn’t developed enough to play my own game against me.”</p><p>Rossi smiles, cold and slow. “I see. Give me a handicap, then. I know you see me as someone who doesn’t give a damn about family, but I’m actually just the opposite. I’d like to save my teammate.”</p><p>For the first time in a few hours, Matthews’ eyes twinkle in satisfaction. “That so?”</p><p>Rossi nods. He’s going to have to take—God forbid—a vacation after this case. The stress on his heart is almost too much. “That’s so.”</p><p>Matthews smiles, fiddling with the coffee, but he doesn’t drink it. “What are you willing to give me in exchange for a hint?”</p><p>“Well, what can I offer?” Rossi says, fully prepared to play into his fantasy. “You’ll escape no matter where we put you, so a reduced sentence is useless to you.”</p><p>Mathews smirks, fingertips trailing the ceramic mug’s edge in contemplation. “What, indeed. How about…full immunity?”</p><p>Rossi’s eyes shoot up in false surprise. “That’s a tall order.”</p><p>“What, big Mr. FBI man can’t budge a few paper pushers?” Matthews chides, curling his fingers around the mug’s handle. “Tick tock, on the clock, Mr. Rossi. Spencer’s probably a sobbing mess by now. Always knew his brain was overrated. If it wasn’t, he’d’ve figured it all out by now.”</p><p>Matthews raises the coffee to his lips, and Rossi smiles, proud and genuine. “Funny you should mention that.”</p><p>Matthews gives him a cool, bored look over the rim of his mug, then the warm coffee splashes past his lips and teeth and into his mouth.</p><p>Matthews screams.</p><p>Rossi has the advantage of having the stomach of a war veteran <em>and</em> profiler, but the immediate steam billowing from the man’s mouth is almost enough to make him flinch. The paramedics who’d been waiting outside the room rush past him, quickly pouring a base of milk and chalk and other basic chemical compounds into the man’s mouth, saving him from the lasting effects of the burns.</p><p>The DA had taken more than a little convincing to sanction such a drastic action, but after being faced with the reality of the situation and the number of lives at stake, she’d finally budged and signed off on the order. With Reid’s help and the assistance of a Portland State University chemistry professor, they’d rushed an order on diluted hydrochloric acid to mix into the coffee Matthews had just drunk.</p><p>Reid, with his brilliant mind and memory, had picked up on a rather odd item in a prominent spot on Matthews’ workbench—a retainer case. It was completely unsuspecting and innocuous, but Reid brought up a good point—a egocentric like Matthews would think his appearance impeccable, and would see no need to such corrective measures. Besides, the man’s teeth were fine.</p><p>Reid brought up the fact that a specially made retainer could, in fact, carry a switch easily activated with the tongue, and it would pass through most routine police inspections. It was far too easy to convert the electrical wiring into a retainer. Albeit, a bulky and uncomfortable retainer, but still.</p><p>Hence the acid in the coffee.</p><p>They’d destroyed the detonator and could finally put this horrible case to rest.</p><p>“Tell Morgan and Prentiss to give the bomb squad the okay,” Rossi shouts to Aaron, more than ready for the knowledge that Reid would finally be safe.</p><p>Aaron is already on the phone, headed for the door to inform Reid and JJ, and Rossi turns back to the melee around him, standing out of the paramedics’ way. Luckily (or unluckily, depending on one’s perspective), Matthews hadn’t been stupid enough to inhale any of it, so the damage was limited to his mouth and tongue, from what Rossi could see. The solution was just powerful enough to fry the electrical wiring.</p><p>Reid had mentioned that Matthews wasn’t stupid enough to leave the wiring unprotected, so he wouldn’t electrocute himself by taking a drink, but the acid would erode through the trigger and wiring enough to make it unusable.</p><p>Rossi stands guard for the next ten minutes of triage, then moves to the side of the door as a stretcher is wheeled quickly into the room. Rossi watches unimpressed as Matthews is hefted onto it.</p><p>“Good riddance,” Rossi mumbles as Matthews is wheeled past him, only for a hand to clutch his arm. Rossi flinches, looking to Matthews and pulling his arm away, but the look in his eyes makes him freeze.</p><p>Matthews’ mouth is already scarring, the burns on his lips bright red and surely agonizing, so he can’t smile. He doesn’t need to.</p><p>Despite the knowledge that his trump card is gone, there’s victory in his eyes.</p><p>Matthews’ fingers slip from Rossi’s sleeve as he’s carted away, but Rossi stands stock still for another few seconds before he’s galvanized into action by the panic in his lungs.</p><p>Something is wrong, and they’re about to send an entire squad in.</p><p>…</p><p>Reid hears the bomb squad coming almost as soon as Hotch appears on screen to tell him so, and feels the tension in his throbbing shoulders drain all at once. His head lolls back away from the constricting leather, and it lets him breathe unrestricted for just a moment.</p><p>“Through here,” a familiar voice says, and Reid wants to cry and scream all at once.</p><p>A bomb tech comes first, completely outfitted in her gear, but there stands Morgan behind her, gun out and ready to face the world.</p><p>Despite the relief gnawing at his insides, Reid takes a shaky breath. “You shouldn’t be here, Morgan.”</p><p>Morgan’s eyes finally relax as he smiles. “Good to see you too, kid. I figured you’d been without a friend for long enough.”</p><p>Reluctantly, Reid smiles, blinking back the tears in his eyes as the bomb tech crouches beside him.</p><p>“Dr. Reid, my name is Sara,” the woman says, inspecting the bomb behind him. “The detonator was destroyed, but we still have to be careful, okay? We’re going to have you out of here in no time.”</p><p>Reid makes a sound of affirmation, finally used to not being able to nod. “C-can…can you at least untie me?”</p><p>The waver in Reid’s voice has Morgan at his side in an instant, even before Sara gives approval. Without Morgan blocking the door, Reid can see the rest of the bomb squad watching carefully from the doorway, holding equipment to fully dismantle the bomb once he’s safe.</p><p>“I gotcha, pretty boy,” Morgan says quietly as he works at the leather strap, quietly apologizing whenever his ministrations pull it tighter. Reid gasps like a drowning man when the belt is finally gone, letting his head fall forward. His neck muscles scream in protest at the new position, and he coughs hoarsely, but it feels so much better.</p><p>Morgan keeps talking nonsense as he moves onto the cord around his torso, gently squeezing the back of Reid’s neck in comfort before he continues. Sara is talking quickly to her companions beyond the door, but all Reid can do is close his eyes and breathe as the adrenaline crashes to his feet.</p><p>Morgan finally gets the cord unwound and slices easily through the bonds on his hands, quickly bringing them around Reid’s body. Reid stifles a sound of pain and shuts his eyes as his shoulders pull against the new position.</p><p>Morgan’s warm fingers are quickly rubbing his wrists, trying to stimulate the blood to flow. His usually pale hands are mottled red and light purple and white, and Reid has to close his eyes again, choking down a sound of fear.</p><p>“No worries, pretty boy, it’s all fine,” Morgan says quickly, moving onto the other hand as pins and needles quickly turn into an agonizing burn. “It’s all fine. Your fingernails are already getting some color back. It’s all gonna be fine.”</p><p>Reid takes a ragged breath, clumsy, throbbing fingers clutching Morgan’s FBI jacket. “Morgan—”</p><p>“I know, kid. I know. Matthews is going to the hospital, then straight to supermax. No passing go, no collecting $200.”</p><p>Reid has to smile at Morgan’s attempt to joke, taking another shaky breath as Morgan finally cuts the cords on his ankles, finally completely freeing him.</p><p>“Can we get out of here?” The question, while he tries to keep it toneless, is laced with desperation.</p><p>“As soon as Sara gives the okay, we’re gone,” he says, grasping the back of Reid’s neck in support, the best he can do in Reid’s slumped position. “Sara?”</p><p>Reid waits for Sara’s gentle assurance, but when none comes, he sits up to look at her. Behind her helmet, the woman’s face has gone pale.</p><p>“Sara?” Morgan asks, his fingers tightening on Reid’s neck.</p><p>“I need you to remain calm, Dr. Reid,” she says slowly, her own voice even and smooth. “There is a pressure plate under your chair. I need you to stop moving and remain very still. Agent Morgan, I need you to step back.”</p><p>Morgan’s shoulders go rigid at the request, but Reid looks up. “Let her work, Morgan.” There’s more bravado in his tone than he feels, but the last thing he wants is to get Morgan hurt.</p><p>Morgan’s lips press into a thin line, and he takes two jerky steps back, like a puppet on broken strings. His face tenses and he puts a hand to the comm in his ear, finally looking to the computer screen that has since lost its volume. “Yeah, we figured that out, Hotch.”</p><p>Reid’s body has tensed again, his adrenaline surging, and for a moment he’s glad that is not, in fact, a medical doctor, because he doesn’t want to know what the hormonal imbalances must be doing to him. He stares at the concrete floor and lets Sara work.</p><p>Morgan stands rigid a few paces away, unwilling to move to a safe distance despite Reid’s insistence that he do so, and Reid heaves a ragged, frustrated breath.</p><p>“You’re incorrigible.”</p><p>Morgan smirks. “You too, kid.”</p><p>Sara works for twenty minutes before Reid hears a click echo in the silent room.</p><p>Reid’s entire body flinches, and he thinks for a horrifying second that he will be consumed with flames at any minutes, that he’ll be vaporized, that Morgan will die with him and they’re going to be killed right here, right now—</p><p>“Reid—Reid!” Morgan’s hands are on his shoulders, now, and he’s kneeling in front of Reid, shaking him to get his attention. Sara is standing back, looking as exhausted as he feels. “It’s okay. It’s okay. She disarmed it. It’s over.”</p><p>Despite the fact that his brain processes information at the speed of most computers, Reid can only stare at Morgan for a full ten seconds. He mulls the words over, turning them over and over and inside out and analyzing every syllable before he can fully understand.</p><p>When he does, he takes a breath. He takes another breath. And then he crumbles.</p><p>It’s not in tears or cries. It’s in ragged breaths that won’t stop wheezing in his lungs. Trembling fingers clutch at the shoulders of Morgan’s coat until he can breathe like a normal person, and Morgan remains unwavering through it all, ready to offer a shoulder to support Reid when he’s finally ready to move.</p><p>The trip on his unsteady feet from the chair to the ambulance is a blur, but the next thing he really remembers is Emily pulling him in for a hug, then a black SUV screeching to a stop on the outskirts of the gaggle of sirens and cars.</p><p>JJ and Hotch and Rossi rush to them, and JJ is in his arms before he can say anything. Hotch’s eyes have finally relaxed, and Rossi looks two inches from collapsing with him.</p><p>“I’m okay,” he whispers quietly, closing his eyes as JJ pulls back, taking his face in her hands and smiling at him with utter relief in her eyes. “I’m okay.”</p><p>It takes all of them being beside him to let him believe the words, and he knows Garcia is with him, despite the distance. She’ll fuss over him to no end once they’re back in Quantico.</p><p>He can’t wait to get on the plane. He can’t wait to be home and away from Portland, and he can’t wait for this case to be over with.</p><p>For now, though, he’s content to pull the shock blanket tighter around his shoulders, his family around him.</p><p>He smiles.</p><p>Some part of him is still terrified, another part of him angry, but another part of him pities Matthews.</p><p>He couldn’t imagine himself without his family behind him. He would have crumbled long ago if not for the strength from these amazing individuals ensconcing him. He wonders, for a brief moment, if someone with a mind like his would’ve turned out like Matthews, had his circumstances been different.</p><p>He smiles as Morgan drops a hand on his shoulder and Rossi makes a joke, prompting a laugh from everyone.</p><p>Reid won’t waste time on idle thoughts like that, because he knows for certain that he’ll never have to find out.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“This is my family. I found it all on my own. It’s little, and broken, but still good. Yeah. Still good.” – Stitch, from Lilo and Stitch</em>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hehehe I looooooove the BAU with my whole entire heart.</p><p>There we go! That’s the end, but I’m playing with the idea of an Epilogue. What are your thoughts?</p><p>I hope you liked it! It made me happy to write :D</p><p>Please let me know what you thought, and your thoughts about an Epiloge! Thanks! :D</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A/N: This one should be done fairly quickly, and I wanted to get it out there! Publishing works that I like kind of gives me motivation to actually work on them, so I hope you’ll bear with my sporadic update schedules.</p><p>Thanks so much, and please let me know what you thought about it! Thanks!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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